Craigslist does wonders for Emanuel Swedenborg

Despite Thurgood Marshall and Clarence Thomas, despite years of aggressive litigation to broaden civil rights, social reality on the ground is relatively stagnant in the African American community, at least when it comes to major urban enclaves. Philadelphia, Detroit, Compton, Liberty City, large sections of New Orleans, LA, the District of Columbia, even San Antonio, from what I've seen in historical footage, though I grant that Texan violence seems to have a more ruthless aspect to it. The Northeast corridor is more five and dime, if my years off campus were any indication. My perpetrator, for instance, allocated that he was subduing me in order to rob me, but I had next to nothing of value in Diamond Park, five dollars on my kitchen table, purchased by my Italian grandmother, utilized as a writing desk, I still keep my Smith Corona PWP on it, in my static environment. Five dollars, some change. Drug stabbings, drug fires, inner city neighborhoods aren't just about a deficit of resources, and poverty isn't simply about lack of money, nor even education. It's uselessness, and efficiency developers like Ev Williams cannot always solve this through coding and apps; neither can the Communist Party in Beijing, from what I've seen, and white Americans aren't immune from this malaise of not being able to apply themselves. Karina telephoned me Tuesday, unexpectedly, disruptive, and was quite changed, back to her natural brunette hair color, wearing very little mascara. I don't know what it is with me and this New Church woman who inadvertently ignited a war between me and Riverside's management, or, more correctly, ushered in the latest battle I will eventually lose. I feel badly for her, and like her even if she's flighty, leaving me with the mistake of trusting her judgment, and I suppose she feels badly for me, and I'm wondering if I engage in my last life altering event of giving my notice at the end of March, come hell or high water, if she'll let me sleep in her car. I've no idea how she's managed to retain the vehicle, even less why a 36 year old who's a bit loony wants to be my friend. I cannot pay her what I did, even if I find a writing job. What should the fact that she's being kind to an embittered cripple mean? She hardly has the resources to pool her fortunes with mine to help me relocate on the last leg of my viable years. She doesn't want to apply to be my consumer model attendant. Sandra Bland had a position awaiting her, by contrast, when she was arrested for that traffic violation. Did she fear losing it over a misdemeanor?

Spastics like myself have some insulation in that regard. Police do not like the hassle arresting wheelchair users pose, even if their domestic housekeeping presents itself as a liability, and as I come from a family with a number of first responders, I know something about cops and firefighters. They don't want to kill anybody, normally, and aren't prone to excessive force, not on the beat, but an arrest brings any citizen closer to a high risk lifestyle, though in most cases it is a revolving door, when it doesn't lead to rehabilitation due to injuries sustained in high crime areas. Darrell Jordan's decision to impanel a grand jury which then declines to indict doesn't foster trust in enforcement, any more than indicting a celebrity like Bill Cosby on hearsay is justice for victims of sexual assault, and just as automation forgets we're people first. I've been a writer publishing since I was 19, and Inquisitr has ignored my inquiries too.

Ozy would probably say, if it said anything, that my umbrage with them is misguided, and it probably used an automated system to sweep in my twitter account in 2014, and their email to my yahoo address was a prompt, and this doesn't obligate them to listen to me, especially since I am not a passive disabled woman grateful for ambulatory suffrage, but they certainly aren't as liberal as they claim if they can't handle how Philly's incompetent paradigm traumatized me. Won't even bother to listen. In California the unbearable lightness of being is a mandatory disposition, evidently.

Waking Wound

I still have a dialogue going with the man from India who will be in the US next week, but I doubt this is a partnership that will succeed, because I am not sufficiently agile, and I'd have to drop everything and absorb the consequences, namely, that I could never return to Riverside. Whatever the spiritual bliss of that, I still need a landing, in essence. I learned from foreign correspondents that Asian Indians are more likely to interact with vulnerable groups, and herein lies my proof. 

California liberalism on the socialist side of the spectrum will paternalize me, and that plays out like a Jimmy Dean commercial, but the disabled woman dares have a valid counterpoint, and oh, her email goes to junk, but the Asian programmer deigns to interact with me. It was pleasant, however futile, or nearly futile (I am determined that team OZY and I will have a real conversation. Do I expect this conversation to provide me employment? Further my career? No, but if I can contribute a nano liter to putting OZY out of business, it would be good fodder for his program).

Dreams about my felines invariably mean something else, driving on a nearly pitch black road with little kimmy on my lap. She jumps off behind a car and I am panicking she will be killed and ask for directions at a crossroad, needing to pick which direction I want. These intra species bonds are invariably selfish, whatever I'm in the process of losing.

Society of Friends

One wonders how a colony founded by Quakers became such a corrupt iron rust state, and I certainly cannot connect all the dots, but suspect that Irish 19th century immigration was partly to blame, with the Cosa Nostra running a close second in WW2. By the time the Italians seceded the government of Philadelphia to the blacks, it was a foregone inevitable collapse of ineptitude.

The current manager of Riverside, the last time I looked, Trudy Richardson, admonished me with her bullshit-chirpy Oprah act "I treat you how I'd want to be treated!"

Really? Presby Homes simply escalates tensions after a manager who knew their liability in relation to my trauma, Ellen Hovey, retires?

Since the hire and dismissal of Debra Schwab, who falls into the jackass blond category where I've slated Karina, my Craigslist hire, Riverside has done nothing but harass me. Nigger lesbian wants to fuck me? Oh that was wrong. Nigger Jehovah's Witness fuckwit swindles me? Oh that was wrong.

My language is deplorable? I really don't care right now. Complain, let Blogger disrupt my services. It is perfectly all right for Ozy.com to use me for its market brand and then ignore my outcry for support. That isn't defamatory behavior, simply a fact of life that I get it from all sides and I am supposed to put myself on joy juice, be happy. Make the best of it, keep trying to track down phone numbers to actually talk to people. Why is it so hard to find directory listings? Perhaps that is a small article. A Linked In piece?

Repetitions of Mhz

I have seen the trailer for The Half Brother so often that despite the swollen eye of the actor who plays Fred Neilson, despite the father's dapper yellow clothing and his Buick, I haven't the least interest in seeing the saga unfold.

I have a brief note to add about Linked In: Global Media has included me as a participant on health care and I most appreciate it but I'm also not posting anything until I am okay with the site's "lack of relevance" flag. I tend to feel hurt when I feel I'm behaving and then get muzzled, and know other Linked In users remain unsure of their posts, and Bravo, corporate Big Brother has a silent network of people afraid to even be who they are, and I am not talking about deliberate attempts to troll either, and so the spastic dowager will remain mute until I get a sense of the group's concerns.

Look people, I know how the game is played. I feel marginalized and in need of attention and support, (if not supported employment, which is beneath the cost of my education) and most pitches get ignored and I don't pitch often enough and OZY put me in its twitter dragnet last year as a marketing ploy and sent me a link. I clicked the link and saw a dark page and asked myself what I was supposed to do-- and what I want from these heirs to The Grapes of Wrath is a fucking answer. Why put me on a list without paying attention to my incendiary temptations? After putting me on this list why ignore me now? The internet makes it too easy to just click it away. The difference is I make an effort first. I've forgiven and talked with marginalized populations with far worse hyperbole than my own, and essentially, team OZY is a liar. Suburban morale might chastise me with "now spastic you cannot bully".

Watch me. Disabled individuals still capable of gainful activity get rubbed the wrong way being used for a brand that wants everyone to be happy with their own sickle and hammer dignity rationed out in careful parcels while the hierarchies are staring us right in the face, unacknowledged. The game theory I'm playing here isn't all feigned, in other words.

Breaking Down Barriers, Right?

"I had to find my half-brother." -- an actor playing Lars Saabye

Did I drive little Benny off twitter, or, like me, was he too busy to manage multiple social media accounts? He in fact bears little resemblance to Stallone and might go for a more suitable comparison, like DiCaprio or Matt Damon. This is a reflection of a writer's skill kid. I am not going to move in your basement with your family now. No one has the funds for renovations, but where you and my father are wrong Benjamin, is to make me feel like a burden about it due to a four limb affectation I never asked for in surviving a dramatic premature birth. Yours was less eventful. Mom had a C-section, had her tubes tied, and I won't embarrass you in public any further about real fathers and shape-shifters, but it would have been better for me to have settled in with you and Dawn and your boys as opposed to sinking where I'm sinking. I am happy to have discovered your account is still active, and that I erred with search. If I had not followed up on that I might have stepped in it further than this: No one wants to be reminded every day of a segregated intake paradigm that burned me in a trade off with illegal nepotism for an LBGTQ couple so disadvantaged that they've launched two state and federal investigations. True, the failed physician is senile after its strokes, and its partner cuts me with lumbering bully umbrage, and instead of eating this daily, with the rest of my baggage, I could have tutored my nephews, negotiated a truce with your wife over fried egg plant. Nothing's perfect, but I would have been with family in a state where people still retain the notion of hospitality. You keep your distance with convenience, and Carlos Watson will now give Jozannyme! a wide berth, never mind his power politics with Gwen Ifill.

One thing I am only so-so with as a journalist is my contacts, and as I mention in Bigfoot, if Nortorious Person X has an unlisted number, for obvious reasons, then how the fuck do I approach the NPX, send a letter? I needed down time last evening, eating the anxiety of absolute defeat, and I only formulated one interview question. The Washington Post is not likely to take the pitch from me due to internecine rivalry, but Carlos and OZY is another matter, and I am watching them with peevishly narrowed eyes, ready to pounce, and hurting. My own family leaves me like a Bush-Gore hanging chad, and I've been turning myself inside out on this account which Blogger wants me to privatize because I endorse insurrection, reductionism, looking for solutions, and I paid a resource site to look for a room mate only to discover how marginalized architecture for the disabled is, in reality, and people can't handle the load I carry here online. I can't go bike-riding in the park. Denny O'Brien's yoga classes might be difficult for me to manage, and all parties involved want me to be rational about an attendant care system that has traumatized me many times over. How fucking wonderful it is to be alive. Jimmi Shrode warned me more than 16 years ago about California liberalism. I've had my rebuff from Jersey's too, because the white child abuse survivor wanted to talk to me, until Courtney queried with, "You know this is a volunteer position?"

Why wouldn't I have known it when I contacted the human preservation foundation? Oh, Rhett spoke what, 15 words to me about a different direction. When the welfare system kills me, you'll care then, I suppose.

Weights And OZY

OZY's ability to utilize twitter's lists is marginally opaque,and this was a legitimate request for guidance on the model, ignored-- and more than anything else, this willingness to ward off-- this account is just an opportunistic reservoir for spammers if I am going down, in any case-- gets to me. I am an OZY 2014 intriguing journalist, but because I went to their website and didn't know what to do, now I'm persona non-grata, because I was frustrated rather than pleasant. I am opaque on Medium's structure too, but Ev never offered me any cosmetic support-- OZY did, and their team refuses now to respond to me.

Did the intern listing me actually read what I was writing? People tried to shut me down for my empathy for the late, ineffectual anarchist Christopher Dorner.  The only change between then, and now, I'm out of money, and a ten year old Quickie which suited me best, is down

The girl across the street, Jodi, lives by nursing home rules for the mentally retarded in a community model setting. Her case manager or welfare claims agent gives her 40 dollars a month as pocket change, and the state manages the rest of her entitlement. My ex, with his posterior multiple strokes mental processing, says "She isn't retarded, trust me." With umbrage indicative of a bad experience that, as his former lover, I am better off not knowing, but I know better than he that she is an MR client. Banned from this building for stealing.

She asked me for toilet paper over the intercom; in her mind, my slightly higher status obligated me to support her. Conservative principles kept me alive with 1963 neo-natal technology, and then tortured me in various institutional settings upon which liberal academia sort of lied to me--granting that I gave up hope in my 30's that a doctorate would necessarily do me any good (it would not now). 

Popular sentiment of working class talk back: the world doesn't owe me anything. And oh yes it damn well does, a lot more than Carlos narrating pasteurized prisoners on horses.

Tsunami Effect

"People who watch it know it isn't boring."-- Robert MacNeil

To stay with IIsoe's adaptation as a lede, for a bit, the Catholic Church is correct with its catechism that some diseases represent evil. We never see Veronika's homosexual husband Carl, but it is his desire to satisfy his need for sodomy which precipitates the latter day crises at Gronnegaard, and the cancer weakened Veronika only has the satisfaction, after lifelong sexual promiscuity, of being caviler with Singe, the youngest daughter who never knew. The elder woman perhaps knew she was dying, and reveals the truth to a clueless florist of 26 that appearances concealed the consequences of so much sexual liberalism. Was Veronika cruel to the girl who only a day earlier she was attempting to ingratiate? Is lack of reticence appalling? As when a mother confesses her former best friend made a pass at her, and then, oh, a year, six months, regrets, through her emotional disorder psychiatry insists on classifying, says "I wish I never told you that."

Veracity alters the landscape. I loved Kathy more than my own mother when I was 12, and wished fervently to trade places with the deceased daughter Colleen. Kathy came out before my mother's anecdote, showing up at my sister's tete a tete gatherings, and I met the partner, a relative of the dead husband. My gaze stayed overhead. No remarks, just two fat women well over 35. I attempted to rekindle former childhood attachment as pretense. Hugged former childhood attachment at funeral for the bipolar matriarch who isn't to be blamed for my 53 year old predicament, and would burn the enemy at the stake along with New Mobility's star lesbian. Do I realize the implications of my rhetoric? Grand standing? Inflammatory? 

The media is just as absorbed in generating Bobbi Kristina into. a saga as it elevated Terri Schiavo into a Shakespearean tour de force. Terri Schiavo, however, was emblematic, to all parties, whether it was the life affirming ecumenical advocates, or the death with dignity advocates who wanted a vegetable with minimal awareness and a shrunken brain to be released. Nothing could be proven against Michael Schiavo prior to 2005. Terri's presumed diet pill usage is not an a priori indicator of abuse. Bobbi Kristina is not emblematic, just the poor little rich girl who brought the hood into Paris, in essence, despite Houston's celebrity and daddy Brown's acumen, whatever that amounts to. The family has the money to emulate Caucasian anal retention standards, but black is black, skidding on its on depreciation and hair relaxers. And Bobbi's attempted suicide or abuse at the hands at adopted brother is fresh enough that if the conspiracy minded Caucasian public could not get Michael, they are damn well going to roast Nick Gordon in a public shaming.

The upstanding Fascist who hates the hood where she is now totally indigent gives him the benefit of the doubt, even if the girls are always the heavy. Public television newscasts are boring, and pink. Why am I picking on Ozy? They were nice to me, and all the sudden I've developed a papier mache indignation. Why? No one reading my content is willing to risk helping me re-engage first, worrying about the rest later. Safety and support outside the box. Work, a fresh change of environment where I can reach for a modicum of tranquility. I'm not ready to die. On the razor's edge, I'm still fighting. Give me a chance. The libertarians accepted me. More than I can say for the hideous cruelty and corruption in the progressive welfare state.

Fighting With Silent Leftists, Whether Die Swiftly or Linger in Traumatic Entrails

Arm chair positivists. What I haven't had for years is someone picking up the phone and hey Joanne, how you doing? Don't get discouraged. Want to come work for us? How can I pick apart what OZY indices on twitter means, why their members are members? Why they put me on an intriguing journalist list-- 2014 was undoubtedly my last active year, despite the tremulous energy I've thrown into my posts. Bobbi Kristina has ceased to be a flap jack. Maybe. Her case differs from Terri Schiavo in our arguments about value, efficacy. Schiavo became an irrational cause celebre with insinuations of spousal indifference. None of us can know the inside of the Schiavo marriage, just as none of us know if Nick Gordon is guilty, but if Schiavo was a cause, Bobbi is an unspoken casualty of racial celebrity unable to adjust to life in the bubble. Real fame is a curse, making black celebrity more of a tightrope, unless you were Diana Ross, but the vegetative body, it troubles everyone, the dead alive. Venezuela might have become a beat if Hugo Chavez, like the fictional Veronika Gronnegaard, lingered in a coma. Veronika doesn't linger long, and essentially dies for a daughter emotionally oblivious to the impact, however debilitating. Frederick, the eldest son, virtually goes into major depression. Gro loses everything. Sunshine/Singe loses her innocence and splits her family.

My mother's death, swift, pulled the lynch pin out of my family, and barring a miracle I die alone in upscale minority projects. I will probably never fully recover my health for a simple reason. I did not leave Riverside in 2006, which is when I should have, and my ability to endure this community is failing. That simple. I am dying because I cannot change my hostile environment, because I'd have to fight the disability center tooth claw and nail for absolutely nothing. I rip $450 out of their petty change budget, let's say. Nothing. The disparate poverty of their current client base is loathsome, and their information and referral staff still type narrative notes, poising the same questions, destroying my self-same determination they claim to uphold. Faust got to see the world for his deal with the devil.

My choice is stay, give in, take incarceration, or go back North, fifteen minutes uptown, so I can fall into spastic bitch trash slot. All because I'm not an anti-anxiety medications trying to control a classroom.

I believed in a dynamic life. This is simply going through the motions of American catacombs. No one wants an uncouth bitter bellicose happy anarchist fantasizing inglorious paybacks, skull fractures on a makeshift alarm clock as a weapon. There I have ideas, those reverberations of unwitting consequences. Even revenge comes cold.

Tuning Forks in Urine

LUCIO. If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors; and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. --Measure for Measure

I first became aware of the controversy over Shakespearean authorship in high school, and initially felt sympathetic to the Stratfordian charge against the Earl of Oxford proponents, namely, claiming that Shakespeare could not have written his plays was *elitist,* but the debate itself is basically what I like to call a false dichotomy, Derek Jacobi's quite sensual stature as a grand thespian notwithstanding. Active research scholars point to the lack of evidence that William was a writer, and that the Earl had an extensive humanist training, knew the theater, and the Globe burnt down, taking its evidence with it. However, an examination of the plays themselves illustrate that whoever wrote them had a scatological range surpassing Chaucer's, and some are difficult to produce onstage. Characters like Lucio populate nearly all of Shakespeare's stories, a rambunctious threat to the not so very established order under the monarchies of Europe. A clever opportunist, if William was that, a bourgeoisie with a streak of ruthlessness, could have certainly written these works. The evidence is in the thriving discontent, in Shylock's mercantile parsimony, in the dynamic gouging out of Glouchester's eyes as Lear wails across the stage. The 17th Earl of Oxford may have had the culture, but he was a courtier of privilege.

Beyond this, the issue is a hopeless distraction. If Shakespeare wasn't his own author, someone must have known the truth, and those persons never made any testament, one way or the other. Jacobi and the Oxfordians are in love with a theory, perhaps buttressed by metadata, perhaps not, but Shakespeare by necessity must have been a man akin to the fictional Nicholas le Floch, a chameleon with the ability to navigate diverse social strata. Would that be an Earl, or a managerial businessman who had a mean streak? Who would be more likely to create a commercial success, rescued later under the auspices of the Romantic movement authors?

Writing, researching, these are indeed more isolating activities than producing a play, or films based on a play, but once a writer creates a work, ownership instantly becomes diffuse, no matter how arcane copyright laws are. I opt for William Shakespeare. Why? Because I'm the great granddaughter of a Roman cobber with just enough education, just enough mingling between the middle class and the indigent-- if indeed we aren't all headed for an economic meltdown that will quake like magenta-- to harbor bitter pretensions toward grandeur, beholden to developers like Ev Williams on the one hand, for my power did indeed ripple outward, but also marginalized by their science, on the other. I hate being cut by outlets like OZY simply because I did not act in the appropriate time frame. One in their number put me on an intriguing journalist list in 2014, but is this truly supporting me as a peer? I reference this same cut by New Mobility after I worked so hard for them to challenge the orthodoxy, and I was, in 2004, still vainly trying to hold onto a sense of family in the disabled community. I had not raised my voice about any sort of betrayal, but the editor, Tim Gilmer, couldn't take the time to send me an email before he cut me off from his contributor list? It hurts. I do not know how to trust any process anymore.